The Stalker of the Pastry II: Flying Fops
by Foppiciousness
Summary: [Sequel to SotP] Erik wants just one thing in life: for Raoul to leave him alone. Well, and for Cheese to fall madly in love with him. And for Mme. Geewhiz to stop ogling him. But mostly just that one thing.
1. A Short Respite Before The Storm

**Stalker of the Pastry II:**

**Flying Fops**

**A/N: This is the sequel/extension to the oneshot Stalker of the Pastry, so to keep the confusion down to a minimum, read that first, if you haven't already.**

**Erik: I think she's becoming a Raoul fangirl. Run while you still can.**

**A/N: YOU! BACK IN THE CLOSET! NOW!**

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_**Chapter One:**_

**A Short Respite Before The Storm**

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Long after most of the quaint French bakery's patrons had left for the evening, no doubt to return in the morning for the two-for-one chocolate croissant special, a lone figure stubbornly remained outside, drenched head to toe from his dip in the Seine.

"Erik, my love! Open the door! Please, oh mirror of my heart!"

A rather stressed stalker slid open the second floor window and leaned out to shout at his would-be lover. "You're not my type, Raoul!"

Raoul fell to his knees in the middle of the obsessively cared for, very expensive, and more than a little yellow lawn, tears(or is that still river water?) falling freely. "Oh, Erik! It's because of Cheese, isn't it? I promise, my dearest, I never loved her! It was always you, only you!"

A strawberry filling-soaked shoe hurtled out of the window in his general direction. "Stop bawling, fop, you'll overwater the fescue!"

"Please, my love, let me in!"

"I'd rather sing with Carlotta!" A second shoe followed the first, and the window slammed shut with a rather cliché note of finality.

Raoul sobbed in despair, no small part due to the grass stains now ruining his favorite trousers. Then an idea hit him. Quite painfully. Those nasty idea things sure leave wicked bruises.

The poor, bedraggled Frenchman climbed to his feet, a new light of determination in his eyes. If Erik the Stalker had looked out the window, he might have recognized it as the very look that was in his own eyes when he had devised that sad excuse of a kidnapping plan back in the prequel.

At that moment, however, Erik was quite unwilling to go anywhere near that window for fear that Raoul would enact a dangerous plan to somehow spirit him away to that blasted Schartlefritzen of his. What was so special about Schartlefritzen, anyway? What did it have, other than some cows and a dead violinist or two?

As it so happened, Raoul was about to enact a dangerous plan to spirit him away to that blasted Schartlefritzen of his.

"Oh, _Cheese_, dearest!" he called out in a singsong and very soprano voice. "Could you come open the door for me, my precious muffin?"

The result was immediate and very, very loud.

"CHEESE! GET AWAY FROM THAT DOOR BEFORE I LOCK YOU IN MY TORTURE CHAMBER AND GET ANNOYED AND YELL AND SCREAM AND SHOUT AND YELL SOME MORE AND SCREAM SOME MORE AND SHOUT SOME MORE AND BE EVEN MORE EVIL AND SCARYISH THAN I WAS IN THAT ONE VERSION OF PHANTOM WHERE I ACTED ALL 'FREDDY' ERIKISH AND SKINNED PEOPLE AND STUFF AND NOW I'M JUST FILLING UP SPACE IN THIS RANT SO THAT THE AUTHOR PERSON LOOKS LIKE SHE'S ACTUALLY DOING SOMETHING INSTEAD OF WASTING CARBON AND WATER MOLECULES!"

The door opened.

"Oh, hello, Raoul, I must not have heard the doorbell," the ever dull Madamoiselle Danish said absentmindedly as she stepped aside for him to enter.

"No worries, my dear! All is now well in the world-"

Cheese was abruptly yanked out of sight, and Raoul caught a brief glance of his One!True!Love before the door slammed shut a fraction of an inch away from his ever so shining locks.

"The hair, Erik! I thought you liked the hair!"

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Inside the bakery, Erik leaned on the door. "All is not well in the world, Monsieur le Vicomte!" he snapped. After reassuring himself that all eighteen bolts were firmly locked, he nearly sprinted up the stairs - ah, who are we kidding, 'nearly', he ran like a French fry from one of those greasy young folks that always take so long to order in front of you in line at those cheap fast food places – with poor Cheese tossed over his shoulder playing the Let's Not Show Up In The Story Until Characterization Is Needed Game.

Ah, what was this? He pulled up short and yanked open a small door behind the pie rack, wincing as it banged against the steel shelves.

"Careful, dear, you'll jar the marzipan," Cheese mumbled.

Erik the Stalker growled. "THERE ARE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS AT STAKE IN THE PLOTLINE THAN YOUR GODSBEDAMNED MARZIPAN!"

"Nothing's more important than marzipan, you know that…"

After consideration, Erik reluctantly had to agree that this was true, nothing was more important than marzipan, really, because after all, it _was_ marzipan they were talking about, and _nothing_ was more important than marzipan, didn't ya know, and it was about this time when Erik the Stalker realized how much time he was wasting talking to a pastry and tossed his precious damsel into the teensy room, which appeared to be a broom closet. No wonder the bakery was so dusty. Mustn't jar the marzipan.

He locked the door before firmly closing it, content in the belief that Raoul was now without a way to enter the premises, schemes or no schemes.

He was very, very wrong.

But then again, isn't he always?

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**A/N: Well, there you go. Next chapter should be up some time by next Wednesday, and will be entitled "Nicole Kidman Would Be Proud". Think sequins. Sequins.**


	2. Nicole Kidman Would Be Proud

**Stalker of the Pastry II:**

**Flying Fops**

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to(and blamed on) certain people who know who they are and who need to sing something better than the soundtrack to some crappy McGregor movie. So there. Nyah.**

**Disclaimer: Shoot, I forgot one last chapter…the Phantom of the Opera does not belong to me. It belongs to(among far more talented others) Andrew Lloyd Webber, who is stupid and has poor management skills and I'm going the right way for a lawsuit so I shalln't elaborate. Shalln't is a word, right? My spellcheck doesn't think so. Then again, my spellcheck doesn't think "spellcheck" is a word, so what does it know? Anyway, I do, however, own Cheese Danish, the Stalker of the Pastry, and Schartlefritzen, which, thanks to is actually a country. Sort of. And that lame song belongs to…someone other than me, and Nicole Kidman belongs to Tom Cruise. And Australia.**

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_**Chapter Two:**_

**Nicole Kidman Would Be Proud**

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Raoul was having an extremely unpleasant evening. His One!True!Love had locked himself away inside a bakery belonging to Raoul's only possible ally, who was most likely now well out of his reach. In addition, there were disturbingly large grass stains running the length of his trouser legs. So his inevitable nervous breakdown and subsequent total loss of sanity shouldn't come as a surprise.

"I'm just as good as Christine, Erik!" Raoul looked around feverishly. "I…I can sing better than her! No, really, Erik, look!" He hummed to himself – horrendously off-key – before breaking into his impromptu performance.

"A kiss…on the hand can be quite…quite continental…" Raoul twirled halfheartedly. "But diamonds…are a girl's best friend…" Erik's window remained stubbornly shut. "A kiss might be grand…but it won't pay the rental…la la la something…lalalalalalalala…" Still shut. He hopped and skipped, very ungracefully. "Men grow cold…as girls grow old…" Dance, step, kick, turn. "And we all lose our charms in the end!" Hop, skip, jump!

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Inside the bakery, Erik paced ever so phantomishly back and forth in front of the broom closet, but each pass brought him closer and closer to the hall window. This was not good. (pace) He was trapped. AND he was barefoot. (pace) He HATED being barefoot. If he left…(pacepace)…Raoul would surely jump him and do…he really didn't want to think about what Raoul would do. (pacepacepace) This was not good. (pace) This was BAD. (pace) Very, very-

Something tapped him on the shoulder.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEK!" Erik leapt on top of the nearest table, promptly leaping off again when it groaned alarmingly under his weight. "GET OUT, FOP! GETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUT-oh, hello, Christine. How did you get the closet door open?"

Cheese stared at him blankly. "The door locks from the inside, Erik."

"Oh."

"What's Raoul doing now?" She tried to peer over her stalker's shoulder out the hall window.

"NOTHING! Absolutely nothing! Well…he's ah…he's watering the lawn! YES! LAWN CARE! THAT'S IT!"

Cheese nodded agreeably. Wonderful. She believed him. What a relief.

Then she had to go and ruin it.

"So…the cancan dancers in the glittery leotards are the mowers?"

"THE WHAT?"

Erik rushed to the window, horribly confused and terrified of what he'd see.

For good reason.

Very good reason.

There was Raoul, in an obnoxiously shiny sequined jacket, surrounded by tall, beautiful women will abnormally long legs, all in a line, dancing to music coming from the elaborate speaker system that had magically appeared in the yard.

KICK! TURN! KICK! "Diamonds!" Raoul screeched. DANCE DANCE KICK KICK! "DIAMONDS!" The girls were beginning to knock each other out with their enormous headdresses. "ARE A GIRL'S…BEST..." Raoul threw himself on the lawn for no apparent reason, staring at Erik with adoring big blue eyes while lying on his back.

"…friend!"

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**A/N: Yeah. Short. I know. But I spontaneously decided that was a good chapter ending. More later.**


End file.
